At The End of an Endless Night
by Chaotic Century
Summary: Raven's lost years following the fall of the Geno Saurer.
1. Chapter 1

**AT THE END OF AN ENDLESS NIGHT**

**Written by Van, (c)****2013**

* * *

I.

He simply arrived on her doorstep one day, like a creature lost. Shivering despite the warm morning sun, filthy, both skin and clothing torn. The Widow Engel found him there that day, curled up on the steps, still as death. She emerged onto her stoop, knelt down, and touched his shoulder. "Are you alright?" she asked in her soft voice. "Can I help you?"

At her touch, he lifted his head and regarded her with large violet eyes that somehow were lifeless, as though whatever spark that had once illuminated them had long since departed. The red of his facial marking, blade-like with a dot beside, was almost completely obscured by sweat, dirt, and what appeared to be ash. She realized with a start that he was not much younger than she. Fourteen, perhaps?

He said nothing; perhaps he was too weak to do so. She gently took his arm and looped it over her strong shoulders, helping him to his feet. Carefully, carefully, she led him inside.

-.-.-.-

The cottage in which the Widow Engel lived was small and spare, but clean, homey, and bright with sunshine. The stranger gazed dully around the room in which they were standing, which made up the first floor in its entirety, but it was unclear if he was actually taking in anything he saw. "Please sit," the widow said, gesturing to a weathered-looking but sturdy chair at a wooden table. "You must be thirsty; you look like you have traveled far, and it has been very hot these past few days." Obligingly, he sat, and looked down at what remained of the decorative carvings the table had once had. He did not once look up until the widow had returned from the well outside and was touching his arm lightly to get his attention. He accepted the mug of cool water she offered, gulping it down greedily until not a drop was left. "Would you like more?" the widow asked him. He only looked at her, parched lips slightly parted, and then down at the table once more. She left and again returned with a mug of water, which he again drank urgently.

The widow sat down now at the chair opposite his, and regarded him. "I would like to help you," she said. "I do not know what you have been through, but..." He was still looking down at the table's carved remnants. "Will you tell me your name? Or what I can do to help?"

Again, the visitor had no words for her. The widow supposed that he had been traumatized by something so badly that it had shocked him into this lifeless state. Her eyes traveled over his filthy, knotted charcoal hair, his slight frame, his torn clothes. It was only when he set the mug down at last that she saw the gaping, infected wound on the palm of his right hand. She gasped, standing abruptly. "How long has that wound been untreated?" she cried, hurrying again to his side of the table and cradling his hand in her own. "We must clean this, lest the infection spread. Please, wait here." The stranger made no sound or gesture of assent, but nevertheless remained as he was. She hurried upstairs and to her dresser, which stood in a corner beneath the cottage's gabled roof. She took a tiny bottle from atop it and rushed back downstairs. To her relief, the stranger had not moved.

The wash basin was out in the side yard, and it was to here she led the stranger. He knelt beside it, thinking to drink from it, but she touched his shoulder and shook her head, so he sat back and waited. She dipped a clean cloth into the water and rubbed a chunk of lye soap hard against it until it foamed, then, tentatively, reached out towards his hand. He made no move to jerk away, and so she applied the cloth to the cut, wincing in anticipation of his howl of pain. But he did not move nor react, and simply looked expressionlessly off across the side yard to the orchards. Watching him nervously out of the corner of her eye, she cleansed the wound thoroughly. Strands of blood swirled momentarily in the basin before vanishing. "That doesn't hurt, then?" she asked, no longer surprised when she did not receive an answer. The water glowed faintly red.

She rinsed the cut and pat his hand dry with a second cloth. "There now," she said, almost to hear herself talk, to try and fill the silence. "I am going to apply a special oil I have. It's going to sting - probably a lot. But it'll disinfect your cut. I don't want any infection to spread." She looked at those beautiful violet eyes, so far away. "Are you ready?"

Again, he did not respond, and so she took his hand and placed it, palm-up, on her lap. She removed the stopper on the bottle and, carefully, tilted a few precious drops into the center of the wound. His hand flexed immediately, nearly into a fist, but he otherwise did not move. When his fingers relaxed again, she stood, gently helping him to his feet. "You are brave," she said. "That can be very painful. Come now, let us get you inside. You must eat, and rest, to get your strength back."

The stranger allowed himself to be guided back to the front door of the cottage. The Widow Engel followed him in, sensing, just as she crossed the threshold, a presence behind her, outside. She turned, but saw no one. This was as things usually were; visitors to her humble home were quite rare, indeed. In fact, this strange boy was the first person to call on her, as it were, in a very long time. Despite his traumatized state, she found herself glad of his company as she stepped in and closed the door.

-.-.-.-

Dinner was very quiet, save for the widow's occasional attempts at conversation, and the sounds the stranger made as he devoured his food. Clearly, he had not eaten in some time. She did not have much in this world - her orchards were all that stood between her and destitution - and yet, she was glad to provide for this lost soul. He had not said a word to her thus far, perhaps had not yet even registered her presence, and held a terrible darkness inside of him past which she could not see, but he did not gossip, did not judge nor spurn her. The stranger, though he could not possibly have known it, was a comfort to a young woman much in need of faith in others.

-.-.-.-

She lay in her small bed upstairs that night, having arranged a crude bed on the first floor for her visitor out of a few cushions and blankets. She stared up at the steeply gabled roof, glad for the secure thatching Pieter had made. There was a great, frightening world out there, filled with cruel, judgmental people, but in here, in her little cottage, or out in her beautiful orchards, she was secure. The harsh words of others could not penetrate these walls.

Downstairs, the faint breaths of her unexpected companion wafted up to her. Again, she found herself pondering what could have happened to a person so young - a child, really - that he was alone and out of his senses. Others would label him mad, she knew, not that she would have been able to turn to the other members of her small village for help, anyway. They were suspicious, and called her terrible things: sorceress, murderer. None true, but they hurt. The widow kept to herself, rarely venturing away from her many beautiful acres by the sea, and sold her land's valuable output, gemberries, through a middleman so that she would not need to go to market herself. It was a desperately lonely life, with Pieter disappearing over a year ago, now. Some said he had deserted the Imperial Army; others, that he had run off with a Republican woman. The most vile of all whispered that she had killed him, herself. The widow did not know what to think, and often felt haunted with the uncertainty. She and Pieter had been wed only a few months when he had disappeared, and so she did not feel she had ever gotten the opportunity to truly get to know him.

What she did know of Pieter, that she had learned through their whirlwind courtship and short marriage, was that he was a kind, if unremarkable fellow. He had provided for her well, never lording over her the fact that she had been lucky to marry into so much higher a social station than she had come from, never making her feel that the bounteous orchards were anything but belonging to them both. True, he frightened and, a few times, even hit her when he had had too much drink, but this did not happen often, and now that he was gone, widely assumed to be dead, the widow did not feel it was right to dwell on his faults. The Holy Book taught forgiveness, after all.

The Widow Engel rolled onto her side as a solitary tear meandered down her face. No, Pieter had not been perfect, but who was without sin, anyway? She missed his sun-weathered face, his easy smile, the warmth of another body in bed beside her. The sound of her visitor's breathing reached her again, and she took a shaky breath, exhaling a small prayer of thanks for a day spent a little bit less alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**AT THE END OF AN ENDLESS NIGHT**

**Written by Van, (c)2013**

* * *

II.

The widow went about her early chores quietly the next morning, so as to allow the stranger more time to sleep. Kneading some dough for the evening's bread, she was startled to hear a voice, and more startled still to realize that it was her visitor's. Though asleep, he was restless, appearing to be flailing in slow-motion, whimpering, and uttering soft cries of distress. She watched him for a moment, then felt compelled to release him from whatever nighttime torments had pursued him past the dawn of a new day.

Crouching beside his makeshift bed but afraid to touch him, lest she cause him a great fright, she whispered, then spoke more loudly, "Wake up, wake up, you're alright, it is only a dream..."

He wandered far, in dimly lit laboratories, across verandas awash in the light of a billion stars, through the endless void of space to a blue planet. The widow at last grasped his shoulder, unable to bear witness to his cries a moment longer. He jerked upright with a small scream, gasping, and for a moment, just a small moment, his lilac eyes saw the rough but warm blanket covering his legs, the tidy room he lay in, the comely young woman crouched at his side, concern and no small amount of fright etched across her face. All of this happened in less than a second, and then the fog swirled invitingly around him, beckoning him back into the oblivion where he could rest. He surrendered to it willingly, and once more the demons of rage and grief howled their frustration that they could not find him.

The widow had not missed this instant of clarity when the veil had lifted, however, and she knew, then, that she would live for nothing more than the next, and the next, and the next.

-.-.-.-

Over the following days, the widow did her best to balance the work her berry trees and animals required with the care her visitor needed. He was in dire need of a bath, which the widow, blushing, attempted to explain into his silence. Thankfully, once he was beside her tub, filled with steaming water, soap and a towel nearby, he did as he needed to and she did not have to intervene. He seemed to follow her wherever she went, without even being asked: a quiet presence as she pruned the trees in the orchard or tended to her animals. The silence became familiar to her, and no longer felt awkward. Looking down at him from the top of a ladder against a berry tree one morning, she smiled and said, "Won't you please tell me your name?" When she, predictably, received no response, she said, "Well, you are always following me about, without ever saying a word, like a little shadow. May I call you Shadow?" The visitor blinked up at her, then gazed down the row of trees, and not for the first time, she wondered what it was that he saw.

Repeatedly as the week passed, she sensed a presence nearby but out of sight. When she heard quiet, metallic sounds on her roof one night, and discovered strange marks in the dirt of the sheep's pen the following morning, though, she began to grow alarmed. Surely these were bad omens, warning her of a coming darkness? Her prayers increased in fervor and frequency.

She bolted the door that night before beginning to prepare dinner, a step she rarely took even in the midst of all her neighbors' hostility. "Please do not be alarmed," she told her wordless guest, who was seated at the table and looking off into the distance, "but I am not sure we have been alone here these last few days. I do not know if you were being followed, but rest assured that I will protect you if danger comes. My husba - ehm, Pieter, taught me how to use a gun so I would be safe when he was away with the army."

Gazing out the window as she absentmindedly cubed a potato, her eyes roved across the dusty, circular driveway in her front yard, along the orchard fence, and to the animals' tidy pens beside the barn. All looked as quiet and peaceful as it always had. The late afternoon heat shimmered and danced in the waning sunlight.

The room blackened suddenly as the head of an enormous, dark creature appeared at the window. Two sky-blue eyes blazed malevolently at her, and it opened its great mouth to snarl, revealing fierce, metallic teeth.

The Widow Engel screamed, leaping back from the counter, and nearly fell to the floor. The gun - the gun - where was it? It was in the drawer of the small table next to her bed, wasn't it? Could she get it in time, before this creature broke down her front door?

Incredibly, her Shadow looked up in the direction of the window, eyes dim and uncomprehending. Yet, he stood, and approached the door. "Don't! Don't let it in!" the widow cried, to no avail. He opened it, and the hulking mass of the beast in the doorway seemed to blot out all the light in the world. The creature stood still for a moment, appraising her visitor, and then reached out one strange paw to him, as if to make sure he was real, and he in turn looked and looked but did not move. And then, incredibly, after a long moment the creature stepped back from the threshold, and moved away to the dry, dusty grass in the middle of the dirt track out front. There it remained, immobile, watching them - standing, it seemed, guard over the cottage. Now that the hazy light fell upon it, the widow realized what this creature was: no organic devil, but metal. A black organoid.

-.-.-.-

The Widow Engel did not ever fully adjust to the organoid's presence, frightening as it was, like a beast loosed from the very maw of hell, but she did settle upon an uneasy detente. After its first appearance, the organoid never again startled her in such a fashion, nor did it ever make any further threatening movement or vocalization. Always, it remained in the vicinity, a dark sentinel watching over them, but especially her Shadow. The boy and organoid were rarely physically parted, unless, of course, he was in the cottage, where the organoid, seemingly by some unvoiced pact, did not venture. The widow did not know what to do with such a presence, but did not attempt to rid herself of it, so long as it remained peaceable and did not frighten her or her animals. The chickens, cows, and sheep nevertheless granted the organoid a wide berth.

Despite the widow's relative social isolation, it did not take long for the organoid's presence to become known among the townspeople, who gossiped and fretted: it was yet further proof of her witchcraft. It was a sign that she was summoning the apocalypse, or the spawn of the Death Saurer. And what of the mute boy, to whom she was not related, living with her in sin? What of Pieter? Had she already taken on a new lover so quickly, and one even younger than she? What terrible spells were they conjuring together when Zi's moons were full? Or perhaps he, like Pieter, owned something of value, and she would kill him too in order to have it for herself, the same way she had acquired her orchards?

These cruel barbs struck and stung her, but she faithfully maintained her course, convinced that rendering help to a person in need remained the right thing to do. He did not seem to otherwise have a friend or caretaker in all the world, aside from the black organoid. Besides, her Shadow seemed to be doing well under her care: his appetite normalized, the cuts and bruises all over his body were fading, and his right hand, of which she caught glimpses when changing the bandage dressings for him each night, was no longer infected. It would almost certainly leave a terrible scar on his palm, but, she thought fiercely, this was much preferable to an infection spreading, coursing through the alleyways of his body, poisoning his blood, and ultimately killing him.

Every night, after changing out his bandages, she bolted the door, covered him with a blanket after he lay down, tiptoed upstairs, and knelt beside her humble bed, whispering her gratitude to the Creator.


	3. Chapter 3

**AT THE END OF AN ENDLESS NIGHT**

**Written by Van, (c)****2013**

* * *

III.

Days, weeks, months, and seasons slipped by, and the farmlands in the outer reaches of the Empire at the edge of the sea fell into a new, comfortable routine. The fertile orchards, tended lovingly by the widow and her Shadow, guarded by the black organoid, and washed in fresh ocean breezes, burst forth with one stunningly bounteous harvest after another, each tree straining its branches upward to produce for their mistress more leaves, more fruit.

Tongues still wagged, prejudice still snaked through the town, and the widow still faced the anger and fear in the eyes of her neighbors the few times she had to venture into society. But she always bore such indignities with grace, whether she was alone or had her Shadow by her side. The omnipotent and sinister presence of the black organoid at her farm put to rest immediately any plans even the boldest might have concocted of destroying her orchards and livelihood so as to drive her out of town.

The organoid, meanwhile, kept a sharp eye at all times on its master's wellbeing. The widow realized over time that these two were part of a pair and knew each other from a time long before their arrival at her farm: the organoid's appearance, in fact, had nothing whatever to do with her personally. It regarded her always with both trust and vigilance; she felt strangely honored when it dawned on her, eventually, that it accepted her care of the stranger as being in its master's best interest, to be good for him, even. It was for that reason, she guessed, that it did not ever intervene. So long as it viewed her as a positive agent in its master's life, it would serve her, in turn, by watching over them, the farm, and the animals.

The stranger - no longer so strange to the widow, nor seeming very much like a temporary visitor, either - had still not spoken a word, but somehow learned and understood all that must be done. Often he awoke even before the rooster announced morning's arrival, and the widow would wander down the sun-dappled paths between the trees with her shears or her basket a few hours later, wide straw hat hanging down her back by its ribbons, and find him out there, hard at work. His hand healed completely, leaving behind a great scar, but one that did not seem to trouble him. He grew tan and muscular from the hard work, and, thanks to the widow's good food, he grew, and grew, and grew. Although he did not become overly tall, he quickly surpassed the widow's own modest height, and she now had to look up in order to gaze into his unseeing eyes. The flashes of lucidity in them still came, every so often, and seemed to slightly increase in frequency as he grew older. His nightmares, too, continued unabated, and she sometimes lay awake at night, inhaling, exhaling, and listening to his whimpers, which began to sound more and more like words. He was changing, she knew, as he traded his boy's body for that of a man. She would blink, clutching her pillow close to her chest, and wonder if his darkness would ever change, too.

-.-.-.-

It was so slow it would have been easy to not even notice, but the veil under which her Shadow lived did indeed begin to shift. It started when he came in early from the orchards one day, his organoid following at his heels. He came in to the cottage holding something in a rag. The widow watched as he laid it on the table as carefully as could be, then sat in the chair beside it. She came over to see, and found a small bird with an injured wing. The bird gazed at them both with liquid black eyes filled with fear, but, as she watched, Shadow touched his finger gently to a point on the bird's chest, rubbing it lightly. The bird closed its eyes, visibly relaxing, even when the organoid shifted position slightly in the doorway, where it had been standing motionless. The widow was touched at such tenderness, and amazed that such feeling and regard for even the smallest life had managed to emerge from the void into which his soul had fallen. "We are charged with caring for all of the Maker's creatures," she said, her throat swollen with pride, and she touched Shadow's arm, smiling warmly at him. And there, in his eyes, unmistakably, the fog dissipated for a second, and he smiled back.

With her Shadow's help, the Widow Engel was able to mend the young bird's wing, and several days later, they watched together as it hopped about in the dust with wings spread for a moment before taking flight, whirling brilliantly into the sunset.

-.-.-.-

What began with this small moment of compassion grew and blossomed. The trio's simple existence gave the young man a place to rest his mind and his heart, strengthening and fortifying him against the hate and fear that still howled along the fog's edge, hunting for the hunted. The veil lifted more often still now; his presence seemed to the widow, sometimes, like Pieter's had been: just an ordinary, good person in her midst, journeying through life by her side. But then, there was her Shadow's silence, and the illusion faded. Nevertheless, through bits and snatches, she felt that she was able to understand him better, not as charity, but as a whole person, a whole person with whom she had chosen to spend her days. His awakening with the injured bird was matched several more times, in calming walks by the sea together, or by a soft touch on her arm when she wept from the pain of her losses.

In his infrequent moments of clarity, he felt the demons' presence near. Though he wanted more than anything to be free of the fog, his muddling protector, he knew that if the demons ever found him, nothing short of a miracle would be able to break him free of their grasping claws. A miracle, he thought, like this beautiful young woman drawing a blanket over him as he settled in to the small bed she had had built just for him near the fireplace on the first floor.

Noticing now his rare alertness, she sat on the edge of his bed and regarded him with an almost heart-rending fondness. Deep, long-buried desires stirred within him at the same time that her loving gaze - could it be? Love? - blazed so brightly it burned away the fog. Here, then, was clarity: a dazzling array of color, a world revealed. Places he had not been, people he had not seen since that terrible night so long ago came racing back to his consciousness: sights, sounds, smells, the warmth and security of a hug from his mother, his father...

Rage and terror came then with ungodly screams, grasping, lunging, baying lustily, having at last found their opening to catch him. He closed his eyes sadly against the widow's kind face and slipped back, allowing the mists and the silence to overtake and protect him.

-.-.-.-

That night, the Widow Engel was startled awake by the creak of her door. It opened slowly, and a man stood cloaked in darkness in the hallway beyond. She shrieked, fumbling by rote for the drawer of her bedside table, but when he stepped forward into the patch of moonlight spilling silver through the window, she finally gasped, "My God, Shadow! You gave me such a fright!" He stood there, glassy-eyed, impassive. He had on only the tattered pair of breeches he usually wore to bed, and the contrasting pools of light and darkness flowed across a torso well carved by physical labor. She became aware suddenly of how very insubstantial her simple night shift was, and blushed.

"Are you alright?" she asked him, diverting her thoughts from the places they threatened to go. "Did you have a bad dream?" He, of course, did not respond, but stepped across the room to her, as deliberately as if there were a path to be followed. She could not see his eyes; they were lost in the shadows cast by the strands of his messy, coal-colored hair. "Are you there?" she asked tentatively, unsure, now that this undeclared line had been crossed.

He still said nothing, but came to the side of her bed and sat, placing one hand behind her back. The widow felt...afraid, but not for her life; she understood almost immediately that his burgeoning adulthood would find a way to express itself, no matter how deeply into the fog his soul had been lost. The thought of what was about to happen was both terrifying and exhilarating. It had been so long.

In absence of knowing what else to do, she did not resist, nor did she yield, but she waited, apprehensively, to see what he would choose.

He leaned forward while also drawing her closer to him, kissing her mouth lightly. His lips were soft and warm; his dark locks intermingled with her lighter ones. He broke off after a moment, leaning back to study her with violet eyes intensely focused upon her yet seeing nothing. "Shadow..." she whispered. He kissed her again, wrapping his arms around her, lips roving down her neck, then slowly, carefully, he eased her back into a prone position.

This man, this stranger, who had been shattered, who had barely tasted stability and love before they were taken away, who had tortured and killed and laughed cruelly at it all for so long, did not move nor touch her in any way that was not slow, and gentle, and deliberate. Responding innately to all of the caring and kindness she had shown him through these years together that had flowed by like water, he caressed her with delicate and peaceful hands. She, in turn, considered the unholiness of this act and discarded such thoughts, instead opening herself to the sacredness of a heart that had been broken, then scarred, then hardened, but never lost entirely. She felt it glowing bravely still: a tiny flicker daring to shine against an endless night.

Shadow, or Raven: both names given to him in the absence of his own, neither his. Deep within, his true, unnamed soul had been dormant, resting, but now, he risked discovery by the demons and emerged from the fog. Lying beneath him, breathless, the Widow Engel saw the moonlight falling into his suddenly bright eyes that were like amethyst pools that went on into eternity. "You're here," she whispered, hallowed tears of joy leaking down her silver skin. "You're finally here."

"I cannot stay," he whispered back. "But I'm here...I'm here."

Outside, above the cottage, above the black organoid half-dozing in the yard, above the animals sleeping in the barn and the orchard trees bowed with fruit and the ocean singing forever, the countless stars wheeled gracefully through the heavens, bathing the pair below in their holy light.


	4. Chapter 4

**AT THE END OF AN ENDLESS NIGHT**

**Written by Van, (c)2013**

* * *

IV.

The tidy rows of gemberry trees yawned into infinity ahead of them as they took a quiet stroll. All around them, the farm was at peace: the waves breathed rhythmically onto the shore nearby, the trees were in bloom in advance of another fruit harvest, and the sunlight slanted across their faces. Petals borne on a light, sea-tangy breeze came to rest in their hair.

The widow's heart had at last found calm. Her fields were fertile, her animals healthy, and her cottage, at the center of it all, no longer empty. Her companion, her Shadow, was still lost afar most of the time, but she did not feel alone. Instead, she felt as blessed as if the Creator himself had appeared before her.

She took Shadow's hand and smiled up at him, breathing deeply and savoring this perfection. As she did so, an enormous black bird soared past overhead, its dark outlines perfectly framed against the bright sky. She frowned, wondering what this sinister omen could mean. "So strange," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else, "to see a raven all the way out here."

Her Shadow stopped in his tracks.

"What is it?" she asked, turning. He was staring at her, his face expressionless but his eyes wide with terror. The fog had fled forever; he stood now alone, naked and exposed, prey with nowhere to hide. The demons came like thunder. They lunged at him with bloodthirsty screams, caught him in their vicious claws, whirled around and around him, weaving darkness over him until all was black.

Breaking glass, his mother's screams.

No future.

Lifeless bodies on the floor and a blood-red organoid, gunmetal in the dim light, towering over them all, bellowing in triumph.

No future.

A kind man speaking words like "home" and "friends" before a brilliant ball of light took him away.

No future.

A cruel man speaking words like "destruction" and "death," instructing an orphan in the mechanics of evil.

No future, except this: killing, and killing, and killing, end their lives, annihilate the Zoids, banish every one of them from the face of the planet. Lay waste to everything so that the sadness could never break through.

His breathing was ragged and he dripped with a sudden sweat. The twin demons were curled snugly inside his chest, crushing him with their darkness, spewing lilting chants of loneliness, of hate. He was doubled over with their impossible weight. "Shadow?" He could scarcely hear her frightened voice over the roaring in his ears. He raised his head long enough to gaze upon the Widow Engel, his savior who could not hope to win this fight. She saw right away that the fog was gone, and saw too the fear and malice and pain in his eyes. "Shadow?"

A cluster of petals swirled past in miniature cyclones.

"SHADOW!" he screamed, panting heavily, eyes squeezed shut, almost choking on this one word that somehow wrenched out of his tightening throat. "SHADOW!"

At once the black organoid was at his side. The plates of metal over its chest and stomach opened, and countless cables snaked out, winding around and binding a lost soul with tears pouring down his face. The last thing he saw before being taken completely into the organoid's body was the widow's face: confusion, fear, despair. And love. Always, the love in her eyes.

Shadow spread his wings and roared once before blazing off into the sky.

-.-.-.-

Somewhere, water dripped: a soft rhythm unnoticed in frigid silence. In the winter's shadows, a young woman knelt beside her humble bed, hands clasped, head bowed, remembering. "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil," she whispered, "for thou art with me." Outside of the tiny cottage, darkness reigned, and a troubled planet spun beneath the cold light of the distant stars.


End file.
